


take my whole life too

by pippuri



Category: Call the Midwife
Genre: F/F, delia and patsy move to glasgow!, post-traveling the world they decide to settle down together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-07
Updated: 2020-07-07
Packaged: 2021-03-05 06:20:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25129942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pippuri/pseuds/pippuri
Summary: “i love you,” you reply, and you don’t have to whisper, don’t have to worry about flatmates, or nuns, or anyone hearing you.//after traveling the world, patsy and delia go to where they're most needed
Relationships: Delia Busby/Patsy Mount
Comments: 10
Kudos: 66





	take my whole life too

**Author's Note:**

> does this fic technically fit into the established storylines of call the midwife? not really. do i care? no.
> 
> (based on the christmas card they send to nonnatus house from scotland, but simulataneously taking place in a timeline when they're just moving to scotland at that time.)

Scotland seems as good a place as any to finally settle. You had fought _hard_ for France, but Delia couldn’t speak the language, and you finally admitted you had no desire to retrain as a nurse and midwife in France. 

And anyways, you’ve always gone where people needed you most. Isobel, an old acquaintance from school, had written to you months ago from Glasgow -- asked you if you knew of any nurses in London looking for a change, for a guaranteed district nursing job in Govan. Delia had finished her midwifery training just before you returned from Hong Kong, and Isobel was delighted to get two midwife nurses to add to their rota. 

/ 

Trixie and Phyllis meet you at the train station in London. Delia had booked your tickets so you had a three hour gap between arriving in from Dover and having to get the train up to Glasgow, and Trixie had _insisted_ on meeting you for lunch. 

“It’s been positively ages!” Trixie exclaims upon seeing you, and takes Delia by the elbow. “I’ve been absolutely dying to compare notes with you on Paris, ever since you sent that gorgeous postcard.” 

Delia shoots you a look -- she’d shown you the letter Trixie had written her about French men, and you’re sure that’s where the conversation was going. Phyllis leads the way to a small cafe along the canal, and grumbling, sits alongside you on the bank. 

There’s a lot to catch up on -- Barbara’s death hangs heavy over everything, but you can tell Phyllis is trying to talk about other, happier things. Jenny had gotten married, and even though you had only ever briefly met, she had sent you an invitation to the wedding. 

“It came with all our invitations, to Nonnatus House,” Trixie says. “We weren’t sure where to forward your mail to, so I figured I would hold onto it until you got back. The wedding was last May, and Val set up a betting pool for the first baby.” 

Phyllis shakes her head, and you think at first she disapproves, but instead she says, “My money was on an announcement in November that she was expecting.”

Delia’s sitting close to you, and she keeps leaning in to steal your chips. It’s been ages since you’ve had to really think about appearances, think about keeping a job, think about keeping secrets. Things were always more … relaxed on the Continent, and in America people were so enamoured with your accents and just how _quaint_ they found you that they wrote off your particular closeness to foreign eccentricity.

But you’re not in American anymore, and things haven't changed at all in London. The familiar terror of being found out fills your lungs, and you shift away from Delia, turning to Phyllis. 

The time passes too quickly, and all too soon you’re hugging Trixie and Phyllis goodbye, promising to come visit as soon as you’ve settled, and making them both promise to come up to Scotland on their next holiday. 

/

The train ride is long, through foggy fields and towns where children waved at the train as it sped past. Delia falls asleep before the train reaches Berkhamsted, and her head droops on your shoulder. It seems a normal thing for two friends traveling together to do, so you lean into her and let your eyes close too. 

You wake up to Delia gently shaking your shoulder. 

“Sweetheart, we’ve arrived,” she whispers, “We’re meant to meet Isobel at the pub inside the station, and I’m afraid the train was delayed for quite some time due to the weather.” You blink the last of the sleep out of your eyes, and Delia hands you your suitcase. 

“You’ll probably want this too,” and she hands you the umbrella Trixie had given you as a parting gift (“I’ve heard it’s practically _always_ raining in Scotland!”).

Isobel nearly doesn’t recognize you when you arrive -- the last time you saw her you were blonde, sixteen, and still struggling to recover from the war. When she does though, she leaps up and kisses both your cheeks. 

“Trish! You’re absolutely soaked -- guess Glasgow’s given you a proper welcome.” 

_Trish?_ Delia mouths to you over Isobel’s shoulder, and you roll your eyes. There had already been a girl called Patience when you arrived at St. Mary’s, so the girls there christened you Trish. By the time you were able to speak again, and tell them you much preferred Patsy, the nickname had stuck. 

“You’re so _tall_ now,” Isobel continues, grabbing your suitcase. “And you must be Delia -- Trish has nothing but praise for you, we practically hired you without checking your references. Sorry to tell you we’ve got to wait for the bus now. Bus is usually timed to come in with the train, but you’ve been so delayed. There is a bus shelter at least.” 

She grabs Delia’s suitcase in her other hand, and briskly walks out of the pub. Delia looks at you with wide eyes. 

“Is she always that … busy?” 

“Even more so in school,” you answer, and Delia laughs a bit. 

It’s pouring rain out, and awfully dark, even at 5 in the evening. Delia insists on holding the umbrella, because she claims you hold it too high for it to “work” for her. You’d only been to Glasgow once before, in a stopover during a summer holiday during school. It seems much busier now than it did then, and if you close your eyes you could be back in London, or Shanghai, or anywhere. 

The bus doesn’t arrive for nearly twenty minutes, and you’re close to wasting the money on a taxi. Delia’s pressed up against you, teeth chattering in the cold, and Isobel is jumping up and down like she’s trying to get her blood moving faster when the bus finally pulls up. The inside of the bus is humid and warm, and the windows have steamed up so the city light seems muted and warm through them. 

“I’ve got you in the nurse’s accommodation, at least for the time being,” Isobel says once you’ve warmed up a bit. “They’re nothing like the trainee flats I was in when I was in school in Leeds. They’re proper homes, three of us to a kitchen, and the clinic is on the first floor so you’ve never too far when on call. I’ve put you two in with Joanne, as she’s off at her sister’s wedding in Aberdeen for the next week. She did get the single room, seniority and such, but I know Trish is used to sharing and I hoped it wouldn’t be too awful for you to share with her, Delia. Thought it might be easier to settle in without a flatmate at first.”

Delia glances at you, and you know what she’s thinking. You’re thinking it too. 

“But Trish,” Isobel continues, “you’ve absolutely _got_ to come to my flat for supper. Nithya, one of the girls who lives with me, has been cooking all afternoon and it smells absolutely divine. You’re invited too, of course, Delia. She made sure to have me tell you she specifically cooked enough for us all to have some.”

“Sounds amazing, Is,” and Delia nods in agreement. 

/ 

The nurse’s accommodations are much nicer than the flats you lived in when you worked in male surgical, but nowhere near as cosy as the rooms at Nonnatus House. Joanne has some pictures tacked to the wall in the kitchen, mostly picture postcards of the Scottish coast and a couple of what you can now recognize as California. Isobel shows you to the small bedroom that you’ll share with Delia. Two narrow beds, two sets of drawers, two bedside tables with two lamps. 

“Here’s the key to your flat. When you’ve freshened up, I’m on the fifth floor, just let yourself in.” 

Finally, _finally_ , Isobel leaves, slamming the door to the flat behind her. 

“Are all girls at Catholic school like that, Pats?” Delia asks. “I thought _Trixie_ was talkative when I first moved in with her, but dear lord, Isobel could talk miles around her.”

You grin at her. “And you wonder why I left as soon as I could.” 

Delia gently places her suitcase down on one of the beds. “For show, I suppose this can be my bed.” 

You collapse onto the other one, and motion for her to join you. She toes her heavy boots off, and lies down next to you, tucks herself under your arm. You’ve gotten good at sharing a single bed, so much so that it feels empty without her next to you. 

“I’ve looked Pats, and the Govan Council offers stipends to nurses who don’t want to live in the accommodations. Like the London did, before.” 

You press a kiss to the top of her head. Somehow, after hours of traveling, and getting absolutely drenched in the rain, she still smells like _her_. Like the lavender soap her mum sends for every birthday, Christmas, and Easter, even when you were all the way in Botswana. Like something that reminds you of the camping trips you used to take the Cubs on back in Poplar, sunshine or the outdoors. 

She buries her face in your neck, so you can feel her eyelashes brushing against your skin. “Our own place, Pats,” she whispers, muffled. “Just ours.” 

You smile, even though she can’t see you. It’s only been recently that you’ve been able to remember those few perfect hours in your flat in London, the picnic in the empty sitting room, the jug in the window, not yet filled with flowers, without wanting to cry. 

“We can look on our next day off,” and Delia cranes her neck so she can kiss you on the cheek. You turn your head so you can catch her lips, and she smiles against your lips. 

It would be easy to stay in bed, fall asleep like this, together, but you’re suddenly extremely aware of how all you’ve had to eat today where the chips with Trixie and Phyllis all those hours ago. 

/

Isobel’s flat does, as promised, smell absolutely divine. It reminds you of the restaurants your father took you to in the few happy months in Singapore, where you’d eat the spiciest food you could manage just to prove you could. You had both changed out of your traveling clothes, and Delia is wearing a soft, checked shirt you’re positive is one of yours. It’s much too big for her, and it makes you feel warmer just looking at her. Isobel’s sitting at the kitchen table with a brunette girl, and a third girl is stirring a pot full of something bubbling on the stove. 

“Trish!” Isobel exclaims. “And Delia! This is Ruthie, and Nithya is the one making sure all the food is absolutely perfect.” 

Ruthie stands up and extends her hand. “No one calls me Ruthie, except my baby nieces and Isobel. Just Ruth is good,” and she half-seriously glares at Isobel. 

“I’m actually Patsy,” you reply, and Ruth smiles. 

Nithya turns to you both, and waves with the spoon she’s cooking with. “It’ll be done soon!” She has a thick Welsh accent, and Delia lights up when she hears it. She quickly learns Nithya grew up in Swansea, and they’re immediately discussing an assortment of people that you think they both know, or maybe that they think the other may know. It leaves you to talk with Ruth, who is a captive audience for your travel stories. You’re halfway through telling her about the time that you nearly missed a train in Italy due to a parade crossing what seemed like all the major roads in town when Nithya places the pot of curry along with a bowl of fluffy, white rice in the centre of the table. 

Delia slides into the chair next to you and smiles, linking her pinky with yours under the table. 

/

Dinner is delicious, and so’s the lemon cake Isobel baked. You’re all sitting at the table, chatting and enjoying the warmth of the kitchen when Ruth turns to Isobel, and asks “So, how did you meet Patsy?”

Isobel laughs, and you suddenly want to get up and leave. 

“Oh, she was the funniest little thing when she arrived at St. Mary’s! She joined us in Second form, halfway through the year, and I don’t think anyone heard her say a word until summer holidays. The nuns _insisted_ she was twelve, like us, but we were all convinced she was meant to be in the primary school, she was so little.”

You paste a smile on, and Delia glances at you, worried. 

“Thanks awfully for dinner, Nithya, but Delia and I have to get going.” You move to stand up, Delia next to you, and Isobel looks at you, somewhat confused. 

“Oh, Trish, it was only meant as a laugh! Remember the time the nuns found all those rolls you’d hidden under your bed? I thought Sister Marie Evette was going to explode, she was so furious.” 

You push the chair back a little too forcefully and it tips over onto the ground with a crash. 

“We’re leaving now,” you say coldly, and you know you’re reacting poorly and you know Isobel knows nothing about your childhood, but it’s been an excessively long day and you really can’t handle this right now.

“Goodnight,” Delia says shortly, and follows you out of the flat. 

As soon as you’re on the landing, she takes your hand. “Is there anything I can do, love?” she whispers. You just shake your head, because you know if you open your mouth you’ll start crying. You let Delia lead you downstairs, and into your flat, one where the door locks behind you. 

You let her hold you then, right inside the doorway, where no one can see. 

/

It’s early when you wake up the next morning, and you can hear Delia clattering around in the kitchen. The flat is cold, and when you peer out the window, there’s ice glimmering on every surface. You quickly put on the pair of slippers lying abandoned in the doorway -- they’re a bit too small for you, so you know they’re Delia’s. Despite your pointed gifts of (if you do say so yourself) quite lovely slippers for nearly every Christmas, Delia still “forgets” to wear them, insisting they’re still not quite her style. You dress quickly, trying to find the most appropriate thing to wear in place of a uniform. 

It’s significantly warmer in the kitchen, and Delia is standing at the stove, barefoot and still in her dressing gown, pushing eggs around in a pan. You don’t think she’s heard you yet, and you stand in the doorway for a few moments, just watching her. 

It’s different here, than in all your months of traveling. You’ve woken up to Delia making breakfast, or getting dressed, or just curled up next to you in bed more times than you can count now, but here, in your own flat, it feels real, not like you’re little girls playing house. 

She doesn’t notice you until you’re practically right behind her, and you slip your arms around her waist, rest your chin on her shoulder. Selfishly, you don’t want Joanne to ever come back. 

“I was about to come in and wake you up,” Delia says quietly. “Breakfast’s almost ready. Joanne, the other girl who lives here, left a note telling us to help ourselves to anything in the refrigerator or pantry.”

She turns her head and kisses you on the cheek. “Can you put the kettle on, _cariad_? I’m going to need coffee so I don't fall asleep standing in the clinic.” 

You had had a difficult time falling asleep last night, and you know your tossing and turning had kept Delia up too. You had quietly offered to go sleep in the other bed, but she had shook her head and squeezed your arm, whispering, “I’m not spending our first night in our new flat alone. Now shhh, I’m sleeping.” 

You’d barely finished breakfast when there’s a soft knock on the door. You open it to find Ruth, already dressed in her nurse’s uniform and cap. 

“Sorry, I forgot to mention last night that you’ve got to head down to the clinic a bit early this morning. Need to be fitted for your uniforms and all. I can show you down, if you’d like?” 

You glance at Delia, and she nods. Ruth shuts the door behind her, and sits at the table, eyeing the coffee pot in front of her longingly. You pour her a cup, and she smiles gratefully at you. 

“There’s milk in the refrigerator, if you’d like, and sugar in the pantry, I assume. Joanne left us some basics before she left,” Delia says, “I’ve got to get changed, but I’ll be back out in two ticks.” 

“Just black is good for me, thanks,” she answers, and it seems like she wants to say something else. Delia brushes the back of your hand as she passes by you, shutting the door to your bedroom to change. Ruth doesn’t seem to notice. 

“Um. Patsy,” she says hesitantly. “I’m really sorry about last night. I didn’t mean anything when I asked about how you knew Isobel.” 

Your chest tightens, and you concentrate on staring at the postcard of Oban tacked above Ruth’s head. 

“I realised it was right after the war,” she continues. “You don’t have to say anything but … my grandma, she came to England right after the war too. From Poland.” 

You look down at her, and she looks like she’s trying hard not to cry. “I was in Singapore,” you say quietly. 

Ruth just nods, and places her hand on yours. “I’m really sorry.” 

Delia comes out of the bedroom, her long hair pulled up and back into a tight bun. Ruth clears her throat, and blinks the tears out of her eyes, standing up. “Mrs. Gracie wants to get you both fitted for uniforms so you can begin as quickly as possible. We’re hoping some of the ones we have on hand will fit without too many alterations, as we’re especially short-staffed now that Joanne is off in Aberdeen, and Kitty, one of our other midwives, broke her arm.” 

The clinic is on the first floor of the same building, and despite the early hour, it seems like it has been up and running all night. It’s smaller than Dr. Turner’s clinic back in Poplar, and you and Delia have to change into your new uniforms in a small closet, filled with spare linens and a jumbled assortment of children’s toys. You tuck a few loose strands of Delia’s hair back into her bun before you head back out, and she smiles softly, the one that’s just meant for you. 

/

The first weeks of work go by in a whirlwind. The clinic is run by Dr. Gracie and his wife, and they have both you and Delia on midwifery duties for the foreseeable future. Govan reminds you a bit of Poplar, and you easily fall into the routine of home visits, and midnight calls out to some never-before-seen corner of Govan. Delia accompanies you on the more difficult calls, and you find working with her one of the most natural things you’ve ever done. 

It’s after a particularly difficult birth, with a mother who was barely 15, that Dr. Gracie gives both you and Delia the afternoon off. It’s the first time since you’ve arrived that you’re free at the same time for more than an evening, and part of you wants to waste it, wants to stay in bed with Delia all afternoon, but the rest of you wants to explore the city you’ve adopted as home. 

It’s one of the first nice days you’ve had since you arrived, and the city seems greener than anywhere you’ve ever been, despite the chill. Delia’s changed into a dark purple dress that skims her knees, and takes her tight, regulation bun out for the first time in what seems like ages. She plaits your hair into little pigtails, and you’re grateful for the chance to wear trousers and a blouse. 

It’s a short walk to the river from the nurse’s accommodations, and you pop into a small cafe to buy some sandwiches on the way. Delia grabs a newspaper along with the sandwiches, and just grins at you when you look at her quizzically. 

You sit on a bench near the parish church, and Delia flips through the paper to the classified section. “Nithya told me that one of the other nurses at the clinic found a lovely flat in the classified section of the newspaper. Now that Joanne’s back from Aberdeen, I thought it might be nice to start looking for somewhere for us. Somewhere we could just be … us.” 

You notice she’s subconsciously touching the ring she wears on a chain around her neck. It was your mother’s engagement ring once, saved from the Japanese by what your mother called an act of God, but was really a small hole cut in the hem of your dress and sewn back up and the fact that you vomited so much on the boat that none of the guards wanted to touch you. 

“Why, Nurse Busby!” You exclaim. “Are you asking me to live in _sin_ with you? Whatever would your mother say?” 

Delia laughs, and elbows you in your side. “Well, if you would just make an honest woman out of me, my mother wouldn’t be able to say anything.” 

You’re as good as married, you both know this, but you also know Delia wants nothing more than a wedding. You’ve seen her look longingly at displays of wedding dresses in windows, and you’d be lying if the thought of seeing her in one didn’t make your heart beat faster. 

“Anyways,” she continues, “you had no complaints about living in sin last night,” and she raises her eyebrow at you. You blush, your face suddenly hot in the February chill. 

Delia laughs again, and points out a listing within the classifieds. “We could afford this, you know, if we both applied for the stipend. It’s just a few streets over from the clinic.” You look over her shoulder and read the listing. It’s in one of the old tenement buildings, with its own kitchen, sitting room, and a single bedroom. Delia glances at you, and you know she can tell what you’re thinking.

“We already share a room, Pats, none of the other girls would think it odd if we continued to. Lots of girls do, to save money. It would be the same as our old flat, the one near Nonnatus House.”

Logically, you know it's the same, but part of you felt safer toeing the line when you were in London. You trusted the girls at Nonnatus, and Delia had told you later that Phyllis had found you out and said nothing. You nod slowly, and Delia smiles widely. 

“I can ring the letting agent when we get back to the clinic,” you say, and Delia looks like she wants to kiss you. 

/

The flat is dusty, and seems to have a mildew problem in a corner of the kitchen, but it's the most beautiful place you’ve ever seen. There’s a huge window in the sitting room, and you can see all the way across the river. You bring a picnic dinner, like the first night in that other flat so many years ago, and you set the framed photo that Trixie had sent you as a birthday present on the mantle. 

Delia has an evening shift in the clinic, so you set the dinner basket on the kitchen table, and set to scrubbing the entire flat clean. Ruth had given you use of her mop until you had the time to go out and buy a new one, and it’s not long before the wooden floors are shining like they’re new. You find a little porcelain sugar dish in one of the cupboards, left behind by one of the previous tenants, and you wash it carefully in the sink. It’s chipped a little, but Delia likes things like that. She says it shows they’ve been well loved. 

The slam of the front door startles you, and you realise it’s already 9pm. Delia’s standing in the entryway, looking around the flat like she’s dreaming. She’s holding the last suitcase of your things from the nurse’s accommodations in her hand, and she gently sets it down at her feet. 

“It’s really ours,” she says, and you kiss her because you can. 

She smiles into the kiss, and throws her arms around your neck, kisses you back hard. 

“I love you,” you reply, and you don’t have to whisper, don’t have to worry about flatmates, or nuns, or anyone hearing you. 

/

She falls asleep next to you, and you wake up to her combing her fingers through your hair. The sunlight struggles through the window, and the yellow flowers she put in the window glow in the early morning light. She fell asleep wearing one of your shirts last night, and it fits her like a nightshirt, loose around the wrists. 

You’re quite positive you’ve never been this happy.

**Author's Note:**

> (i would love any and all comments! i've written a Lot of fic but never anything for call the midwife! i am Trying to get their voices but i'm not quite there yet, i don't think)


End file.
